Battle Dawn: Book Three of the Chronicles of Arden

by Shiriluna Nott

  “You’re late. I’ve been waiting for a mark already.”

  “Well, here I am.” Otho’s tawny-colored eyes gleamed with amusement. “Ready to go inside?”

  “I think I have a right to know why we’re here. You still haven’t told me.”

  “You’ll see. C’mon.”

  Before Kirk could raise a protest, Otho turned on his heels and walked away. Grudgingly, Kirk followed at the apprentice’s back.

  The Rose Bouquet tavern was, as Kirk had predicted, packed full. They seated themselves in the back corner, away from the music, dancing, and pipe smoke, at one of the only unoccupied tables. No sooner were their backsides planted did a tavern wench hurry over carrying a platter of sloshing tankards.

  “Ale, m’lords?” she asked.

  Kirk started to decline. “Oh, no. I’m not here to drink—”

  “Two,” Otho said, glaring. He laid two copper coins on the table, and the wench left a pair of mugs behind in exchange. Otho shoved one of the vessels toward Kirk. “Are you trying to draw attention?”

  Locking his jaw, Kirk pulled the tankard closer. He hated having to admit Otho might have a point. Taking a tentative sip from the iron stein, Kirk cast a gaze around the room. “Is it always so crowded?”

  “Every night.”

  Kirk scrutinized the patrons more closely. He found it curious how varied they were. In Teivel, nobility would never be seen mingling with lowborns, but here, such rules didn’t seem to apply. Men dressed in finery laughed alongside those in naught but rags.

  “Vagrants are allowed inside? They aren’t told to leave?”

  “Not unless they’re thieves. Anyone with money is welcome.”

  “Things are so different here. In my homeland, the wealthy and lowborns never interacted in such a way.”

  “It’s mostly like that everywhere else in Silver. But not here at the Rose Bouquet. And not at Academy so much anymore either, thanks to men like Seneschal Koal and the King pushing for equality.” Otho took a drink from his mug. “Of course, now that the rat is sitting on the throne, who knows how long it will be before everything they worked for comes crumbling down.”

  Kirk nodded solemnly. He’d be damned if he stood by idly and watched Neetra invite Imperial darkness into Arden. “So, are you going to tell me why we’re here? Or were you just seeking the pleasure of my company?”

  One of Otho’s thin eyebrows sprang higher than the other. “Don’t flatter yourself, Imperial. This is business.” His gaze shifted past Kirk. “You see that man over there? The one with blond hair?”

  Kirk craned his head around, searching the room. With so many people crammed into the space, picking one man out from the crowd should have presented a challenge, but almost immediately a tuft of platinum hair drew Kirk’s attention.

  The man sat inside a booth, his only company a half-emptied pitcher of ale. Turned as he was, Kirk couldn’t see the man’s face, though judging by the fine quality of his velvet doublet, he was no doubt some kind of lord. As Kirk watched, the man lifted a mug to his mouth and took a long swig.

  “Who is he?”

  “That’s Tarquin Aldino,” Otho said. “The youngest son of—”

  “Lord Joaquin Aldino!” Kirk exclaimed.

  “Right. He’s become a frequent visitor here of late.”

  “Does he always come alone?”

  “Yeah, at least every time I’ve seen him. All his friends went to war.”

  “Do you think—can we talk to him?”

  Otho strummed nimble fingers against the side of his tankard. “He’s typically pretty uptight, being highborn and all. At least that’s how he was in Roland’s class. But a few rounds of ale can loosen up even the loftiest men.”

  Kirk gave the apprentice a dubious look. “You think if he’s sloshed enough, he’ll answer questions about his father?”

  “Maybe, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m gonna make damn certain he talks.” Otho’s fingers dipped into a pocket hidden on the underside of his cloak and plucked out a tiny flask. He set it down on the table. A colorless liquid rippled within the crystal vial.

  Kirk scrutinized the vessel with narrowed eyes. “What is that?”

  “A very special Healer’s remedy from the pavilion. One drop relaxes the body, making the patient forget their sorrows. An entire vial poured into, say, a mug of ale will get them to reveal their darkest, most precious secrets.”

  “Do you really think this is the best course of action? To tamper with someone’s drink? Especially given what we just learned about the death of the—you know who.”

  Otho rolled his eyes. “We’re not killing anyone here, but if you’d rather go on moaning and whining about not finding the truth—” He started to tuck the flask back into its hiding place. “—I can leave.”

  Kirk groaned. “Fine. I suppose so long as it won’t harm the man.”

  Otho smirked victoriously, and Kirk resisted the urge to clobber the other man aside the head. Why did he have to be so infuriating? This was no way for sophisticated people to behave. But—

  I promised Joel I’d help. If this is the only way, then so be it. It’s very well possible this Tarquin fellow is hiding information about his father. If he knows anything, we need to find out.

  Kirk glanced guiltily over at the young Aldino lord again. “Do you suppose we should go over there now?”

  “Let him get through his pitcher.” A chuckle rumbled in Otho’s stout chest. “We can bring him a new one when it’s empty.”

  Kirk tried to relax by listening to the quartet of musicians playing on stage. Even the cheery music couldn’t lift his mood. Patrons laughed and danced, beckoning him to join, but he couldn’t. Try as he might, Kirk couldn’t ease the tension in his shoulders nor the blot of darkness across his heart. Far too much was at stake to indulge in life’s simple pleasures.

  His gaze shifted restlessly around the tavern, from the ancient wood beams that spanned the ceiling to the great stone hearth that was the cornerstone of the building. The flames danced so vigorously within the pit that the heat they emitted could be felt clear across the room. People congregated near the fire and around the bar, where tavern wenches rushed to refill tankards and serve steaming stew.

  His eyes kept drifting back to Tarquin. Kirk watched the young lord take long swallows from the pitcher. He hadn’t moved once, but Kirk still worried the lordling might stumble to his feet and make for the door at any time.

  “Relax,” Otho grunted, rummaging through his cloak again. “He’s not gonna leave anytime soon.”

  He placed another coin onto the table, and a server girl brought a fresh tankard almost immediately. Otho twisted the stopper and poured the contents of the vial into the ale. He muttered under his breath, “Maybe you should drink this instead of the Aldino loon.”

  Kirk glared indignantly. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t work on me. I don’t have any secrets to divulge.”

  “I don’t care about your secrets. I just wish you’d calm down, for Daya’s sake.”

  Kirk pursed his lips against the urge to say something he might later regret. Arguing with the apprentice would only be counterproductive. They were on the same side after all.

  “All right,” Otho said after a pause. “He’s probably as drunk as he’s gonna get without becoming completely incoherent. He probably won’t give a rat’s arse if we strike up a conversation now. Are you ready?”

  “Will this work? Does he even know you?”

  “A little. I mean, from Roland’s classes and all. Just follow my lead. If he asks, you’re my—distant relative.”

  Kirk snorted as he stood. “What? Is being friends simply too much of a stretch?”

  Otho took up his half-empty tankard in one hand and the one meant for Tarquin in the other. “Yes.”

  They crossed the room, faster than Kirk would have wished. He still wasn’t sure what to say to this stranger or if he should even say anything at all. He hoped Otho could manage to be personable for
once in his life. Otherwise, this wouldn’t work. Drunk or not, Tarquin would suspect something if they failed to deliver a convincing performance.

  Otho slowed as he neared the booth and feigned surprise when he came to a full stop beside it. “Tarquin Aldino? Is that you?”

  The young lord raised his wobbly head. He blinked once, twice. Finally, a trace of recognition flashed behind his blurry eyes. “Otho Dahkeel, what brings you to the Rose t’night? Shouldn’t you be training tha troops?”

  “Not at this late mark,” Otho replied, his square face tightening into a smile. The gesture was clearly forced, but if Tarquin’s slurred speech was any indication of his state of mind, then he was beyond noticing.

  “Ah,” Tarquin said. “Well, I s’pose Roland’s gotta let the trainees rest sometime. He never took it easy on me an’ my friends though. In basic training, he had us out doing drills in a blizzard. A blizzard!”

  “I remember.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose you assistants got to suffer in the snow alongside us, didn’t you?” Laughing, Tarquin waved a floppy arm at Kirk. “Who’s your friend?”

  Kirk offered his hand for a shake. “Kirk Bhadrayu. Nice to meet you.”

  “Bhadrayu. Bhadrayu.” Tarquin’s eyebrows pinched as he tried to place the name. “Huh. And here I thought my family knew just about ev’ryone in the city.”

  “I’m a newcomer to Silver,” Kirk said.

  “Ah, that explains your strange accent. Where do you hail from originally?”

  “Uh—” Kirk floundered. Blessed Son, he hadn’t thought of any of this beforehand. “I’m from—the north.”

  “Wolfpine,” Otho said quickly. “Up on the edge of the Pinnacles.”

  “Oh.” Tarquin’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I definitely don’t know many people from that far away.”

  “Yes, it is quite some distance. Almost a completely different country.” Kirk summoned his best attempt at a smile. “Do you mind if we join you, Lord Tarquin? I’m afraid Otho isn’t much of a conversationalist.”

  Tarquin shrugged. “Can’t say my company’ll be any better, but sure, have a seat.” The pink tinge of a blush touched his cheeks as he eyed the empty pitcher by his elbow. “I was just about to order more ale. Maybe not a whole pitcher this time.”

  Otho didn’t miss a beat. He plopped the tainted tankard onto the table and slid it closer to the young lord. “Here. On me.”

  Kirk sat down, holding his breath while he waited to see if Tarquin would accept the bait. What if he didn’t? What would they do then?

  “Thanks.” Flashing a sheepish grin, Tarquin took the mug into his hands. When he lifted the vessel to his mouth, his grip was so unsteady a bit of ale dribbled over the side. “I always knew you were kinder than you let on in the training arena. I get it though. You gotta be tough to keep tha trainees on their toes.”

  Otho shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Don’t worry.” Tarquin took a sip and then a second. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Kirk watched the lordling drink. How long would it take for the remedy’s effects to take hold? Would Tarquin have to finish the entire tankard? What if he drank only half of it?

  The silence stretched. Tarquin rapped his fingers against the table, looking bored, and Otho was making no effort to engage with him. Kirk couldn’t stand it anymore.

  He cleared his throat. “Everyone talks of Weapons Master Roland like he’s a slave driver. I can’t say I understand. I’ve only had pleasant exchanges with him.”

  Tarquin cackled. “An’ just how many of Master Roland’s classes have you taken, Kirk Bhadrayu?”

  “Well, none.”

  Tarquin leaned across the table—swaying from the small effort—and waggled a finger at Kirk. “I suspect you’d change your tune if you had.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. What about you, Lord Tarquin? How many weaponry classes have you taken?”

  Tarquin paused, counting and recounting on his fingers.

  “Eh, four, I think,” he finally said.

  “He also had private lessons with Prince Didier,” Otho remarked quietly.

  Kirk sat back in his seat. “You trained with a prince? Now that’s a true honor! You must be exceptionally gifted with a sword.”

  Tarquin’s ears and neck were now as red as his face. “Yeah. It was during my first year at Academy. Prince Diddy and I are—were—friends.”

  “Were friends? Are you not anymore?”

  “I mean, I s’pose we still are. It’s just, you know, with the ways things have been going over at the palace lately—” Tarquin drank again, as if deliberately trying to drown an unpleasant recollection. When he set the tankard down again, Kirk saw it was nearly empty. “I haven’t gotten to see much of Diddy. I haven’t gotten to see much of anyone. This damn war—” His voice cracked there, and he fell quiet.

  Kirk’s thoughts drifted to Joel. Always to Joel. “I understand. It’s hard to maintain friendships during wartime. We watch our closest allies march bravely into the sunrise, and we’re left wondering if they’ll ever return.”

  Tarquin blinked. His eyes watered. “This war’s taken all my friends away from me.”

  Otho made deliberate eye contact with Kirk and nodded once. He understood. The remedy was working.

  He pressed on, testing the waters gently. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “I wanted to, but—my father—he begged me to stay. I told him it was a dishonor not to go, especially since I’d been training for this for years. He said terrible things would happen—that I wouldn’t come back. I thought he was just scared. I insisted on going. I told him it was my duty to Arden.” Tarquin wiped at his blotchy face. “Right up until the army was getting ready to leave, I had full intentions of marching with them.”

  “So what changed?” Otho asked. “Why didn’t you go?”

  “My father had a decree signed by the steward, placing me in charge of production at the guild. It doesn’t even make any sense! My elder brother’s been overseeing the armory for years! He’s gonna take over when Father steps down. I don’t know why they made me—but it was an order. I was forced into staying, even though I wanted to go. I made a promise I’d defend Arden, an’ I couldn’t even keep it. I had to watch my friends leave—and now I’ll probably never see them again. Why’d he do this? Why’d he force me to stay behind?”

  Tarquin’s voice had become desperate, and patrons were glancing in his direction. Kirk grimaced. The conversation was drawing too much attention.

  He called upon a dampening enchantment. It had been one of the first spells he’d learned when he became an apprentice. Subtle and undetectable to the ungifted, any words spoken would be muffled and indiscernible to those outside its barrier. Working quickly, Kirk weaved the spell, draping magic above and around the booth until an invisible sphere of mage-energy surrounded them.

  “I’m sure your father was just trying to protect you,” Kirk said once he was satisfied the enchantment would hold.

  “I don’t care. It was my choice to make, an’ he took it away from me!”

  Tarquin all but screamed the words, but this time, no one paid the young lord any heed. He slumped down in the booth, arms sprawled on the table with his forehead resting atop them. For a second, Kirk worried the young lord might have passed out, but then he heard Tarquin’s meek voice.

  “My father’s changed. He’s not the same man he used to be. He’s scared, like he thinks the world’s coming to an end. He speaks in support of Neetra. I even caught him holding a meeting with Liro Adelwijn.”

  One of Otho’s eyebrows quirked. “Really? Odd company for Joaquin.”

  Tarquin raised his reddened face. “I wasn’t supposed to overhear. I came home late one night, and they were talking in the parlor. I shouldn’t have snooped—it’s bad form—but I was angry at Father, so I listened from the window.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  Tarquin hesitated. “I—I shouldn’t be repea
ting any of this.”

  Kirk gave Tarquin an encouraging smile. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, it’s bad!” Tarquin laughed madly.

  “Go on,” Otho said. “Tell us.”

  “All right, I s’pose,” Tarquin relented. “Liro was saying Father needed to think long an’ hard about where he wanted to place his allegiance when ‘the truth’ came out. I don’t know what Liro meant by that, but anyway, he went on to say that soon, anyone found supporting the Radeks will be considered traitors an’ if the councilors don’t pledge themselves to the new ruler, their families could be endangered. He was openly threatening Father—an’ then I heard Father say he’d do whatever was needed. I think that’s why he’s been supporting Neetra. I think that’s why he’s so scared. They’ve got him trapped. I don’t know what to do.”

  Kirk’s stomach twisted painfully. So it was true. Neetra was using terror to manipulate Joaquin, and probably other councilors as well. But if no one would come forward, how could it ever be proven?

  Tarquin lowered his face again and blatted into his sleeve. He looked as hopeless as Kirk felt. Had Arden already slipped over the cusp? Was darkness all that remained? Maybe Marc had been right.

  No. We can’t give up.

  For some time, the only sounds were Tarquin’s muffled sobs. His shoulders quaked. It seemed he’d lost himself, whether to the remedy or his own despair. Or maybe both.

  And then he sighed and grew suddenly still.

  Alarmed, Kirk reached out to shake the young lord’s limp arm. “Tarquin—”

  “Don’t,” Otho said.

  “But he could be—”

  “He’s not dead. Listen, he’s snoring. He’s just passed out. I might have been a little too generous with the dosage.”

  Kirk glared. “What?”

  “It’s nothing he can’t sleep off. He probably won’t even remember this conversation in the morning—which is just as well. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  “We can’t just leave the poor man in this state.”

  “Someone will scrape him off the table and make sure he gets home. C’mon.”

  Otho strode toward the door, and Kirk jumped to his feet in pursuit. Hastily, he dispelled the dampening magic.